


Crossing the bridge

by bezzzno



Category: Saving Private Ryan (1998)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canon Era, Gen or Pre-Slash, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-15
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:26:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26363386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bezzzno/pseuds/bezzzno
Summary: And Jackson can't help but clench his fingers on the butt of his rifle, can't help biting his lip as they walk, and while Reiben mutters and complains.And he can't help but agree that fate is cruel and they deserve more.
Relationships: Daniel Jackson/Richard Reiben
Kudos: 6





	Crossing the bridge

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a year ago — it's still one of my favorite works for some reason — and I finally decided to translate it (still from Russian). Maybe it just brings back memories of all my love for these characters and the fandom in General. Because of this, my heart still burns.
> 
> I also made art to this work with all the warmth and love. Enjoy reading. Thanks.

Jackson was cocky. Something particularly bold and sharp — and only to him.

They agreed on a lot of things — almost everything — but it was as if it made Jackson uncomfortable. And he spoke of it, of course, differently.

Was sharp on the tongue and devoted to God like no one else in the team.

Also, he shot like no other.

He and Reiben are like brothers.  
Only Reiben laughs loudly, pulls a lot, makes a lot of noise, talks and makes nasty jokes.

Jackson shakes his head, takes a drag, and laughs.

***

They're both against Saving the private.  
It looks disrespectful, devaluing and throwing away the lives of soldiers, even if it is their duty.

  
Reiben is the first to say this, in a familiar, uplifting way. "What is it?" he asks ironically, spitting sarcasm, but he feels how hard and bitter it is for him to realize that his feet are carrying him to a bottomless, stupid and senseless death — and not only him.

  
And Jackson can't help but clench his fingers on the butt of his rifle, can't help biting his lip as they walk, and while Reiben mutters and complains.

  
And he can't help but agree that fate is cruel and they deserve more.

***

"Will you shut up, Reiben?"

  
All of this really annoys him, it sucks out his guts and all the fuss in his bloodied fingers…

  
Reiben looks at him, grins, and holds the damn cigar between his teeth. Sometimes it seems that he doesn't care,but only for a moment.

  
Because he looks lazy, tired, and understanding, because he hisses with a grin and unnecessary chatter just to relax, not to think again about what will happen tomorrow, today, or whether it will ever happen.

  
Jackson looks away, banishing that small, itchy feeling in the back of his neck, and continues to RUB his fingers over the tokens, hoping that he will stumble upon the sacred syllables that will send them home.

  
And it doesn't find them. Although, in principle, he didn't really hope. But, yes, he was hoping for.

  
— I get full house.

  
— You loss, and I have a straight flush.

  
— ...you are cheating.

  
And he bursts out laughing and relieved. Finding a name is a priority, but when it turns into a game, it always gets easier for you. They laugh.

Reiben nods at the spark thrown in his direction, at his dignity. And Jackson, too.

Jackson laughs, too.

***

The shooter falls asleep quickly. Sweet, strong, and desperate. He does not notice, does not hear the conversation and deep boyish thoughts, memories. He doesn't know that Reiben is looking at him and wondering how he fell asleep.

He looks at it and smiles, because it stings him with some kind of concern that at least someone manages to close their eyes for a long time.

That Jackson should rest for him and for all of them.

And Jackson is tossing around in his sleep — you can't tell from the outside. But it is torn apart and there are only stones and ruins around, but you can hear the morning voices, you can feel the looks of the soldiers of the wounded company, and you can hear the jingling of tokens. And the hands are covered with prayer and names.

One name.

Jackson really wants to erase it. Growls, whines and cuts to the blood the nails the palm of your hand. And too noisy, and too eager to repent before it's too late. Although he is somehow sure that he is already too late.

Jackson is sweating-less than an hour to go. Someone has time to take a NAP, and someone checks the weapon again. His soft gasp echoes, but he doesn't pay attention. Although Reiben looks up, putting the rifle away. He leans on one knee and runs his tongue over his teeth — wanting to smoke, but Jackson's lungs are probably already poisoned.

It feels like he's suffocating.

In fact, almost.

Just whimpering. Crying. Reiben purses his lips. He looks away: at the soothing whispers of the walls, at the benches lit by the wick of the candle, at the frozen dust. The smell in the Church is faintly sweet, like a residue of melted wax.

_"Clear conscience"_

Someone is deservedly given a clean, favorable sleep.

"Until the moment, until the time...", - he thinks and stands up heavily.

Jackson clutches his jacket, his head is in a storm, and he can't hear himself, and he can't feel anything. There was only the same ringing in his head, and the hateful name clinging to his eyelids, and the stubborn knowledge that he wasn't coming home. It chokes his throat, and he can't get out of it until they close his eyes.

And everything stops.

— You have ten minutes to wipe that face off before everyone gets together."

He only hears, instinctively clings to the palm of his hand that gently closes his eyes and the voice is so close, so close. Jackson can feel the heat and moisture in his eyes, but he can't see. He swallows and is silent, comes to himself, but does not let go, can not — does not want to. In this second, minute, just pulling away from everything, clinging to this warmth and voice that brought him out of the damned darkness filled only with letters and blood on his fingers.

Reiben pats the hands that cling to him and grins. Without impudence and without an unpleasant note. He just puts on his usual clothes and looks at Jackson, who is breathing loudly.

It takes a couple of moments and a last, steady feeling on his hands for Jackson to pull himself together. To be yourself again.

"I'm getting up," he says. Calmly, only loosening his grip. Reiben removes his hand and gets up from his knee. There's a hint of dawn in Jackson's eyes. He sighs and looks at Reiben. He lights a cigarette in silence, still feeling the light salty moisture on his palm.

They don't discuss. What's more, Reiben doesn't seem to care at all. He also understands everything, perhaps too much.

As if he talks less and talks less in General, walks more confidently and doesn't tease anymore.

As if he had become

... more serious, " Jackson thinks, walking on the other side of the captain.

He doesn't feel comfortable and doesn't want to risk a conversation with Reiben. He is afraid of being scalded by a recent moment that he might accidentally remember. What Reiben doesn't do.

***

After the incident with the German liberated scum, Jackson can hardly restrain himself from slipping into such an attractive, trembling and staggering target on the horizon. He just frowns and agrees again with Reiben, who is straining his composure to the limit.

Who, Jackson is sure, is holding the rifle too tightly and too ready on his shoulder. The gunslinger would even support him if he cocked the gun. But what hurt him more was that Reiben finally gave up. And not because he didn't release his and the squad's hatred in one bullet in the back of someone else's head, but because he decided to leave.

And at one point it seemed so wrong and at the same time the only true-true. That Jackson just stared, not even knowing what to say, do, or insert. Maybe he'd like to leave with Reiben, too, maybe he's already resigned to a one-way ticket.

This moment, slowed down by the blood in his veins, dragged on so endlessly. So long that the screams and shouts were mixed into a monotone, and the only clear vision was the way Sergeant Mike pointed the gun at Reiben the gun.

And at that moment, the signal crackled, and this forgotten ringing of someone else's badge. Jackson froze, aware that his hand had automatically drawn a gun. His finger was instantly on the trigger.

Jackson didn't even have to kiss the cross to get into the Sergeant's carcass, or even his hand, to relieve the tension in his heart and legs, because… Because…

"Sir, if he wants to go, let him go.

Because if Reiben left them now, he might have a better chance of survival.  
Or it will be removed by the first sniper who sees a patriotically painted jacket.

Because — he swallows dryly-Jackson wants Reiben to survive. Because he's too noisy to meet him in heaven.

Too cocky not to take a bullet from a crazy Sergeant right now.

And he's too much like Jackson for him not to kill his own co-worker over someone else's misdeeds without a second thought.

***

Jackson feels that everything is going right again as he silently passes the shovel. When Reiben doesn't look at me, he just sighs heavily after another buried body, and is silent for the rest of the night. When his breathing is calm, but his brows are still frowning. Because Jackson is sure that he is not asleep. And lies down next to him.

Shoulder to shoulder, brushing against the folded hands and tightly clenched fingers.

No one will blame him but himself, Jackson thinks, because it was a momentary weakness, because it's a characteristic of Reiben. But his seriousness also indicated that he was taking everything very deeply and closely. That everything that happens around you is too important.

Even the arrogance of the title doesn't save him.

Nothing can save them all.

Jackson would like to say something to him. Accidentally throw in to somehow dispel this tension and sharp silence. But it can't: it doesn't know and doesn't have the strength. He just sighs.

Reiben, eyes still closed, hands still folded, turns to him, puts his head on his shoulder, and still says nothing. Jackson, too.

Only this time it's different. Feeling someone else's breath. I could almost feel him falling asleep and his grip loosening. Jackson is not particularly comfortable, sliding down carefully so that Reiben doesn't have to strain his neck so much.

And then Jackson just stared at him. I thought that they were really similar, and perhaps that Reiben falls asleep just as quickly — that his sleep is also restless.

Jackson sleepily tilts his head, settling in, and nuzzles the top of someone else's head. From Reiben smell of his cigar and blew out a bit of gunpowder and earth. Jackson closes his eyes.


End file.
